


Weighted

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: CW: Assault, CW: trauma, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Night Terrors, Someone please help Will Graham, Somewhere, Will/Hannibal - Freeform, admitting feelings, all in a mild conversational context, because apparently he's not such a dick in this universe, canon-faithful depictions of crime scenes and violence, cw: ptsd, frank discussions of Will's mental health, hannibal buys will a weighted blanket, it might as well be an au for how gentle hannibal is in it, mostly it's just soft Will in his jammies with his dogs though so don't worry, set in season 1 probably, some mild horror themes, will's usual schtick of nightmares and hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly
Summary: Hannibal buys Will a birthday gift in the hopes it will help him sleep better. Will ruminates on the reasons why.





	Weighted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sirenja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/gifts).



> So @Sirenja had a headcanon on Twitter about Hannibal buying Will a weighted blanket, and I thought the idea was so charming I asked if I could write a bit of something on it, which they graciously gave me permission to do so. I'm characterising Hannibal as slightly less of an asshole as usual in this fic because... y'know. It suits my agenda. Hope you enjoy. <3

“Thanks again for the wine,” Will says, as he stands to leave the office. Hannibal gives him one of the smiles Will is starting to recognise as affectionate.

“As always, Will, no thanks are required, but I would be remiss to ignore the birthday of a friend.”

Stalled momentarily by the words, Will doesn’t know how to respond. Hannibal tilts his head. “You thought I wouldn’t know.”

“I do my best to keep people from knowing.”

“That’s perhaps something we should cover in our next session.”

“We don’t need to cover it.” Will curbs his tone to keep from sounding as defensive as he abruptly feels. “Birthdays weren’t fun when I was young, they haven’t been better since, I don’t like to be the centre of attention.”

“You don’t like to be reminded that people care for you.”

“I don’t…” he swallows hard. “I- I just don’t like the obligation.”

“Then I hope you know I do not expect reciprocation when the time comes,” Hannibal says, rising from his chair and going to the coat closet. Will watches in mild horror when he returns with a parcel. It’s big, big enough that Will turns red.

“Doctor Lecter-”

“It is a practical gift, and no, it is not clothing.” Hannibal hands the box over, and Will is staggered by the weight of it. “I hope you’ll forgive my presumptuousness, but I thought it would be therapeutically beneficial to you.”

“Is it a straitjacket?” Will jokes, looking down at the box, matte soft-touch navy with a ribbon on top. He thumbs at the satin, more pleased than he’d like to admit, ears burning with it.

Hannibal says nothing, and Will looks at him to gauge his expression. Very still.

“Wait- it is a straitjacket?”

“Of course not. Open it.”

Reluctantly, Will sets the box onto Hannibal’s desk and lifts off the lid, tearing open the tissue inside to reveal a swathe of fabric the same colour as the presentation box. Curious, he lifts it out of the box, careful to keep it mostly-folded so that he has a cat in hell’s chance of getting it back in again.

“A blanket-?”

Hannibal nods. Will looks at it again.

“It’s weighted?”

“They’re proven to help boost serotonin levels and promote feelings of calmness in sleep. Your sleep is generally lacking in either of those things, I’d wager.”

“I guess so.” He bites his lip. “I don’t sleep much, if I’m honest.”

“This might help with that. They’re also very good for quelling episodes of anxiety by encouraging agitated bodies into a more restful state.” He pauses, then adds: “I bought one for Abigail, too.”

Will can’t quite describe what it is he’s feeling. As usual when it comes to Hannibal’s regard for him, it’s somewhere between touched and wounded at his astuteness. He’d like to deflect, or lash out- _One for each of the damaged children in your care?_ Or _Wow, if only I’d have thought of picking one of these up before my mind turned into a fucking bramble pit_ \- but instead he just packs the blanket back down and replaces the lid.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” he says. The use of his name carries his sincerity. Hannibal bows his chin in acknowledgement.

“It might not help, but any benefit it has is worth it.”

Will doubts it, but he’s willing to try for another of those small, pleased nods.

 

Despite wanting to, Will doesn’t put the blanket on his bed for several days. He’s not sure of the precise reasons why, other than perhaps he doesn’t think it will help, and he’s not ready for the faint hope that it will to disintegrate. Instead, he keeps going to sleep half naked in a feeble attempt to keep the terror sweats at bay, and when he wakes at two in the morning, he puts down towels and does it all over again.

One night, he wakes, wipes himself down, and paces the kitchen with a glass of whiskey while he waits for all the nervous energy to leave him; for the dead things in his bed to slink back under the pillow. The dogs are half-watching him, Winston upright and alert, the rest merely aware. Will looks at the navy box on his desk, and finally decides to give it a try.

It’s not just a weighted blanket- it’s a goddamn _nice one_ , with a removable cotton cover that’s downy soft on one side and textured on the other. While he wrings the edges in his hands, Will tries not to think of how much this thing must have cost or how quickly it’s going to get covered in doghair.

Cheeks pink at the thought, he shakes the blanket out over his mattress and stares at it for a long time before stripping off his t-shirt and getting under it. He’s still not sure why he feels guilty about it- whether it’s because it was a gift, or expensive, or just because he doesn’t think he deserves to feel better. It could be a combination of all three.

Shifting to get comfortable, Will curls his fingers into the wadding again and thinks of Hannibal looking into his gift. It’s not an impulse purchase, and Will is fairly certain Hannibal will have anticipated all the ways Will could have been offended by the presumptiveness of buying it for him- especially in light of his admission of buying one for Abigail too. In turn, that means he thought about Will for a long time; about buying him an expensive gift after just a few months of knowing him. An expensive gift that trails connotational intimacy behind it. The thought of him thinking of him and Abigail in such a way brands a mark inside Will, close to his heart.

Under the blanket, soothed by the faint, warm pressure, Will thinks of Hannibal as he drifts to sleep.

 

The blanket doesn’t fix him, and he didn’t expect it to, but Will is surprised to admit that it helps. In the night when the panic takes hold, being grounded by the reminder of his presence in his bed, in his body, brings him out of his mind faster; helps him fall back to sleep sooner as if sinking slowly into deep, warm water. He starts to dread sleeping a little less, finding himself indulging in behaviours he’s scarcely allowed himself before: grading in bed, reading on the porch with the blanket thrown over his shoulders of an evening. He even wakes some mornings to the dogs nosing at him to be let out; a phenomenon so rare he’s not sure he believes his bedside clock for a long time. He looks down and his bed has become an ocean of tranquil navy water, rippled with relief.

Hannibal charitably doesn’t ask, but he seems aware of a small change in Will, and pleased with it.

 

It’s late when he gets home from the scene, and he can’t keep his hands steady as he unlocks the door; lets the dogs out while he stumbles into the kitchen and pours himself a drink, spilling it on the counter and drinking down the measure of whiskey fast enough that he coughs a bit afterwards.

The drive home had been hard, the headlights of his truck picking out eyes in the trees as he travelled. Now, he manages to keep it bottled while he herds the dogs back in; strips out of his outers and jeans and starts to turn off the lights.

The images turn over and over in his mind like a tickertape, blood and hands that move and cut and pose- a man-made marionette, hanging from strings. Will closes his eyes to shake the image away, but when he opens them, the body stands before him, no hands or head but antlers sprouting from its shoulders like wings, strings twitched by unseen fingers.

It takes a lumbering step, and Will lurches back, stumbling over the coffee table and twisting to right himself. The dead thing pursues, antlers growing, blood dripping onto the floor. The panic that comes over Will is a strangling, cold thing like a great, clammy hand over his face. He’s gripped by it, blind and dumb and frantic as he crawls back from the thing.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barks, and he jerks his head at the noise, familiar, grounding. He hits the bed, and finally tears his eyes away from the dead thing long enough to crawl under his blankets like a child; hold it over his head and shake and breathe until the darkness comes to smother the bright, sharp fear.

 

It’s early when Will wakes to the dogs scratting at the door, a soft chorus of whines and yips rousing him from his bed. It’s cold in the house, and Will pulls his blanket around himself, shuffling his slippers on and knocking the space heater on before he goes to open the door for the dogs. He almost has a goddamn heart attack when he finds Hannibal on the other side of it, holding two Tupperware boxes and smiling his patient smile.

“Doctor Lecter- I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Forgive the intrusion, Will. I sent you a message, but I see now that you must not have received it. I called last night, and the phone was disconnected.”

Will studies his face for a second while he absorbs the sentiment behind the words. Hannibal must have been concerned.

“Did- did Jack tell you about the scene?”

“He said you’d seemed rattled when you left.”

“I’m always rattled.”

A short nod.

“Yes. But usually if your employer calls to let me know he’s concerned about you, I can get you on the phone.” There’s a note of reprove there that Will isn’t sure he entirely deserves: he’s not a child.

“I- I guess I forgot to plug my phone in. I just- got straight in bed.”

Hannibal nods again. He looks down at the Tupperware in his hands, and Will finally remembers they’re still stood on his porch.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, come in.” He steps back, all too aware of how he looks, in nothing but his boxers and his blanket. He’s aware of how Hannibal looks too, not quite as new-pin neat as he usually is, unshaven and wearing a jumper with his slacks instead of a blazer. Briefly, Will sees him awake in the early hours, cooking to distract himself from the worry of Will’s dead phone.

Unaware, Hannibal goes straight to the kitchen while Will retrieves a shirt and puts down food for the dogs outside. When he’s covered and the blanket is folded on the edge of his bed, Will comes to the kitchen table where Hannibal is pouring coffee from a Thermos flask.

“You didn’t have to drive all the way out here to check I was okay, you know,” Will murmurs. “It’s early, you don’t have to…”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” Hannibal interrupts, albeit gently. He pulls a chair out for Will, the action so strangely him that Will smiles as he sits down. Hannibal settles beside him. “Tell me, Will, what distracted you from putting your phone on to charge?”

“I… had a panic attack,” Will admits, quietly. He takes a sip of his coffee to detract from Hannibal’s absorbing silence. “Usual schtick. I saw the victim, but they’re not a person anymore when they come home with me- they’re something separate from the victim.”

“Monsters under your bed,” Hannibal surmises. He serves Will breakfast and gestures for him to dig in.

Probing the soft belly of the frittata with his fork listlessly for a moment, Will reflects on the statement before he answers.

“It makes me resent them. They’re murder victims and I resent them for making me uncomfortable.”

“I think you might be trivialising the matter slightly in order to vilify yourself. You have dedicated your adult life to bringing justice to people at the detriment of your psychological health. It’s only natural that you occasionally feel that you have been dealt an unfair hand.”

“I don’t think it’s unfair,” Will murmurs. “I don’t think that at all.”

Hannibal considers him silently once more. Will finally takes a bite of his breakfast. As always, it’s exceptionally good.

 

Will doesn’t have a case to work on right now, or a session, or an excuse, but Hannibal doesn’t look surprised to see him when he opens his front door, still in his three-piece even at the late hour, just as Will suspected he would be.

“Will,” he greets warmly, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“Hi,” Will looks down and scuffs his shoes on the mat for a moment. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all. I was just about to have a nightcap- please, come in. Will you join me?”

“Sure, I could have one.”

It’s a familiar routine: let Hannibal tuck his coat away, follow him into the heart of the house where a fire always seems to be burning. A glimpse of the usually immaculate kitchen shows signs of company- plates on the draining board, several wineglasses polished on the counter where they’ve not yet been put away.

Hannibal gestures him into a seat in the ruby light of the study and goes to decant drinks.

“It’s late. Troubled thoughts?”

“No- I thought you might have company tonight and I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I would have invited you if I thought you’d come.”

“It’s probably just as well you didn’t. I would hate to turn you down almost as much as I would have hated dinner with your friends.”

“Colleagues, mostly. I prefer a more intimate setting for friends.”

Face heating, Will looks at the firelight dancing through the cut crystal of the brandy bowl as Hannibal hands it over. He lingers over Will, a shadow-drenched spectre from one of Will’s dreams for an instant. His eyes pull Will back from the dark, warmly amused.

“What?” Will deflects.

“Is this retribution, Will?”

“You got me. I know you said you don’t expect it, but I wanted to give you something.” He feels like an idiot as he reaches into his pocket and produces the box, handing it over.  “Happy Birthday, Hannibal.”

He watches him crack the lid open with an almost infinitesimal spark of glee in his gaze. He schools his expressions well, but there’s a coiled effusiveness in his stance now, pulling his shoulders back and raising his chin. He takes the fishing fly from the box and turns it in the light, and his eyes reflect liquid warmth from the fire.

“It’s a lapel pin,” Will explains, standing up and setting his drink aside, “for your buttonhole- it’s okay if you don’t want to wear it, I know it’s not exactly your style-”

“No.” Hannibal turns it again, openly admiring the sleek feathers, slick browns and bright, cathartic crimson. “I like it very much.  Put it on for me? I don’t often wear them.”

Stuttering a bit, Will takes it from Hannibal carefully and threads it through his buttonhole, securing it swiftly, aware of the faint smile curling Hannibal’s mouth. It’s a bizarrely intimate gesture, enough that Will’s hands tingle.

“Did you make it?”

“Of course I did.”

“What’s in it?”

“Found some owl feathers a while back, I think it was a screech owl by the patterning. The red is cardinal, and there’s a little nick of antler in there.”

Their eyes meet and Will clears his throat a bit, smoothing the feathers just so with his finger before forcing himself to withdraw.

“It’s a beautiful gift. Thank you, Will.”

“It’s not a five-hundred-dollar blanket, don’t get me wrong…”

“I would certainly have considered a gift of that nature to be belied by obligation.”

“Well, that’s a double standard right there.”

“The beauty of hypocrisy- exclusively in terms of giving birthday gifts, I assure you.”

“I figured there was nothing I could buy you that you wouldn’t buy yourself if you wanted it. Besides, you have very specific tastes.”

“My tastes are much more richly satisfied by the craftmanship of someone that I care about.”

Embarrassment sears him. Will lowers his gaze, and the warmth refracts like light through a prism. Shades of pleasure amongst the shame.

“And by someone who cares about you,” he mutters, swiping his drink up again, going to stand by the fire. Hannibal joins him a second later and the silence grows comfortable rather than awkward.

“You use the blanket, then,” Hannibal observes eventually. He’s given Will enough time to get a few sips of his drink down; get comfortable in his space. He’s almost imperceptibly good at making people relax.

“Yeah. I use it.”

“Does it help?”

Will thinks about it.

“Well, it’s still on my bed. Still get terrors, but it’s not so hard to get back to sleep afterward.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” When he peeks, Hannibal is watching him again, smile small and earnest.

“I read a theory that- outside of stimulating rest responses in the nervous system, that they’re good for emulating bodily contact.”

“A surprising amount of people sleep better with someone else alongside them,” Hannibal says practically. “It’s debatable whether it’s as superficial as comfort, or down to our more primitive instincts.”

“Safety in numbers,” Will says. Hannibal nods.

“Did you find it emulated bodily contact?”

“It just made me more aware that I didn’t have any.”

Another short nod.

“You’re very protective of your personal space, but you often seem to lean into physical contact without realising. It’s an important exercise of your control: your body over your mind, your body over your surroundings. Often people with control issues like to have that control subverted- though with you I suspect you simply find it overwhelming, oftentimes.”

“That’s very observant of you, Doctor,” Will lets his tone go cool. He’s embarrassed again, but this time not so pleased.

“It’s common amongst those of us who have heightened anxiety. Neurodivergent peoples. Assault victims, of course, PTSD patients. Those like yourself, who are overstimulated by sensory inputs.”

“No one assaulted me.”

“You were stabbed as a policeman, were you not? I’d say that counts as assault. Not to mention the mental assault you face when you are subsumed by whichever crime scene Uncle Jack sends you to on any given day.”

“Let’s not be dramatic. I have night terrors, I’m not under attack.” His lip curls even with the realisation that it’s not true. Hannibal’s gaze has turned knowing.

“I’d argue the two are mutually exclusive. Not comparable to a warzone, perhaps, but worthy of comfort and treatment nonetheless.”

“I’m not a child,” Will snaps, before he can stop himself, “I’m not a victim. I don’t need your pity.”

Despite his tone, Hannibal reaches out and touches Will’s elbow, his own voice soft and even.

“No, Will, you’re not a child. But like a child, you have little agency in the small spaces you occupy in other people’s lives. You perform your magic and dazzle the audience, and they ask and ask how the trick is done and you keep it to yourself. But when you go home at night to your empty house after the lights are snuffed, you alone know that there is no trick- no make believe. You see it all, and keep it all inside you, and you isolate yourself so that nobody can catch it off you and see the things that you’ve seen.”

Will’s breath stalls in his throat. Hannibal isn’t done.

 “I’m sorry that my caring offends you, and that you think yourself undeserving- but I don’t. If I can offer you even a modicum of comfort in a life of horror, then with your permission, I shall.”

Will is speechless for a second. He looks down at his glass, tipping the liquid this way and that. His ears burn so hot it hurts a little.

“You uh- are you this attentive to all your patients?” He says, hating himself as he says it, knowing it’s not fair. He’s not fair. Regardless, Hannibal just shakes his head.

“I think you know that I’m not. From the moment I met you, I found myself watching you more often than I cared to admit. Now, unfortunately, I must.”

The gravity of it washes over Will like a gentle wave. He looks at Hannibal’s face, so hesitant but open, and finally understands.

Setting his glass on the mantle, Will turns to Hannibal, making an effort to keep his breaths steady. He reaches out and brushes the feathers of the fly down again. Hannibal’s twitch is barely there, but its longing is so plain that Will feels weak to behold it. He lets his hand drift up to Hannibal’s jaw hesitantly, all too aware of the shake there.  As if coaxing a startled animal, Hannibal holds for him, eyes sweeping closed for a brief second when their skin touches.

He doesn’t wait then to fold Will carefully into his arms and kiss him, startling a faint noise out of him that turns to sighs; fingers in hair and rending fabric and Hannibal’s tongue dipping into his mouth like he’s tasting the delicacy of their closeness. It feels like coming loose; tearing free of his moorings. Will savours every slide and press of their mouths. Hannibal was right: he’s thoroughly, joyously overwhelmed by all the ways they’re touching, fit to burst with feeling. It quickly feels like too much.

They break apart with a few more ebbing, lingering kisses, shrinking with intensity but not intent. Hannibal’s hair has fallen into his eyes and for a minute, he’s so startlingly human, possibly more-so than Will has ever seen him.  

“Thank you,” Will breathes, “for saying that to me. And for caring… about Abigail too. It’s- I always feel like I’m at the bottom of my ocean. It’s nice to know there’s a ship nearby.”

“I won’t let you drown. Either of you.” Hannibal touches Will’s hair like he can’t stop himself, but Will leans into it- like he always has.

“Thank you.” He closes his eyes and listens to the crackle of the fire until his thoughts thread back together.

“Bodily contact, you say,” Hannibal murmurs, after a few long breaths have passed between them. Will’s mouth bows into a helpless smile.

“That’s what I heard.”

“You’ll have to compare notes.”

“I think I will.”

Hannibal pulls back to look at him, eyes gently appraising. He brushes his thumb against Will’s lower lip and his expression visibly softens.

“Will you stay?” He asks. Hope sounds like a distant bell behind the words. Will takes a breath and nods.

“I’ll stay.”


End file.
